


Truant Vows

by Lilliburlero



Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 06:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17719484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: After the events of s.4 ep.5, Daniel patches Leonard up.





	Truant Vows

‘Hullo, Marlowe Studios—’

‘Hullo, Daniel—’

‘Leonard!’ His delight turned almost instantly to consternation. There had been no press-button-A clunk, and Leonard was scrupulous about personal calls from the vicarage line, always putting aside threepence in a jam-jar he kept for the purpose, and on a curate’s stipend every threepence counted. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, no. But I can’t make it to the pictures tonight, something’s come up.’

That was nothing unusual; things were always coming up at the vicarage, and quite frequently they were the sort of things people didn’t want to bellow down the ‘phone about. But there was a dangerously steady note in in Leonard’s voice, as if he’d been practising the simple phrase for some time.

‘Oh, crikey—you were going to talk to the Archdeacon, weren’t you? Didn’t things go to plan?’

‘You could say that.’

‘I can shut up early. Come round to see you, if you’re alone.’

‘No—no, don’t.’ Leonard's voice rose, and (along with his composure, Daniel sensed) began to crack. 

‘Go to mine,' Daniel said. 'You know where the spare key is.’

‘I can’t—’

‘It’s a work of mercy. Parishioner in urgent need—’

‘You?’

‘—of knowing what the hell’s going on. I can be there in a quarter of an hour.’

He found Leonard in his kitchen, cowering from the sightlines of the window, a damp, pinkening tea-towel clamped to his split and bleeding brow.

‘I’m sorry—I thought it had stopped bleeding, but then it opened up again and—’ Leonard stammered.

‘Bloody hell. What happened? Did someone—?’ The first thing that went through Daniel’s mind were ugly jeers in a Gents or an alley behind certain pubs, because that was always the first thing to go through his mind; he wasn’t proud of that, just conditioned to it. But this was _Leonard_ , and moreover, he was wearing his dog-collar. Cambridge yobs seemed to be getting worse, graduating from throwing straws in the Victoria to ripping upholstery with Stanley knives in the Regal, but they'd still probably think twice before bashing a togged-up clergyman.

‘No, it was an accident. I was having a bath, after—before. And I slipped.’

Daniel looked openly sceptical, but Leonard’s lips tightened into a stubborn line.

‘Come on.’ He took off his hat and jacket. ‘Into the bathroom. Iodine and sticking plaster should see you right: anything on your head bleeds like billy-o, it always looks worse than it is.’

In fact, it was worse than it looked; it probably could have done with a stitch; the eyelid was swelling shut over a miraculously uninjured eye. Leonard sat on the closed lavatory seat, pale and shaking with shock, not pain. He barely flinched when the iodine touched the wound. Daniel dressed it, squeezed his shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

‘There. You’ll do. You’ll have one hell of a shiner, though, and you won’t even be half-respectable by Sunday. Come and have a brandy.’

Leonard looked up. ‘Thank you. Hot sweet tea would be—alcohol’s actually the w-w-worst—’ His eyes were swimming.

‘You didn’t slip in the bath. And you didn’t go ten rounds with the Archdeacon. He looks like in about 1925 he might have made a handy light cruiserweight, but—’

Leonard bowed his head; his shoulders rounded, hunched and began to heave. Daniel crouched down and put his arms awkwardly around him. For a moment he was lost in compassion and concern, but then it came to him like a shadow of the blow Leonard had received. The first thing everybody knew about the new Vicar was the motorbike, but the second thing— _handy light cruiserweight_ —

Daniel bit his lip on a bit of distinctly barrack-room language. ‘Davenport. It was bloody Davenport. He hit you. Because you reported him to the Archdeacon.’

Leonard’s whole body shook in negation. ‘No—it was my fault. I—I—provoked—I was being a self-righteous prig—’

Daniel stood up and drew Leonard to his feet. He fished for his handkerchief and pressed it into Leonard’s hand, then darted towards his lips.

‘Don’t. I’m _snotty_.’ Leonard blew his nose. ‘And not in…the—the—not _here_.’

‘I’ll clear this lot away and make that tea. You go and put your feet up.’

Leonard nodded. At the bathroom door he turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘The worst thing is I—have to go back. With him there.’

‘No-one would blame you for staying over—in the spare room, if you need some space.’

Leonard’s face brightened for a moment, and then he looked away. 'No. It’s too much of a risk, now.’ 

* * *

By the time Daniel came through to the sitting room with a tray, Leonard had recovered a bit, and seemed just exhausted.

‘You look all in,’ Daniel said. ‘Are you sure a brandy wouldn’t help?’ He set down the tray.

‘No, tea and biscuits are just fine. And Thou.’

‘Beside you singing in the wilderness?’

‘Not if your attempt at “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind” last Sunday is anything to go by,’ Leonard smiled, wanly.

Daniel grinned. ‘Mrs Bennett was putting me off! Sharp as a whole drawerful of knives, that one. I think she drinks the vinegar she’s so keen on sloshing about the vestry. Anyway, suit yourself, I’m having a nip.' He retrieved a bottle and brandy balloon from the glass-fronted china cabinet. 'Does quoting Edward FitzGerald mean you’ll put your head on my knee and let me stroke your hair while you tell me the whole sorry story?’

Leonard hesitated, and then lifted his chin with defiant, faintly ridiculous charm. ‘Yes. Yes, it does. And—may I change my mind about the brandy?’

They were mid-way through their second before Leonard had explained everything. ‘I should never have been so hard on Jessica. She probably only wanted some gimcrack toy. Her father’s a domestic tyrant: she never has treats like the other kids.’

‘How old is he?’

Leonard raised his head from the cushion on Daniel's lap, frowned, and winced. ‘Jessica’s dad?’

‘No, you ass. Will Davenport.’

‘I don't know exactly. Old enough to know better.’

‘Hm. Student exemption from National Service, and then straight into orders?’

‘He must’ve done it all marvellously quickly. He’s terribly young, for an incumbent, even if he's a bit older than he looks. Why?’

‘Because if he’d done a stint in the Forces he might know how popular officers who undermine and humiliate their NCOs to curry favour with the ranks tend to be. Squaddies never respect a suck-up, even if they’re happy to take the perks as they come.’

‘Come again?’

‘Well, Jessica is a bit smaller and less hairy than the average Private Pongo, but the principle’s the same.’

‘Oh! I’d never thought of it like that. I don't think that's what he meant to do. But, all the same, I—heavens, I can hear my own voice, whingeing away at him. Telling him something I promised I’d never say to anyone. That—that he’s a disappointment to us. That’s what my father used to say to me.’

'But he is rather, isn’t he?’

‘No. He’s a good man, really. Do you know, when he was first appointed, he offered to step down in my favour? I mean, he was only being nice. One the Bishop’s decided, that’s final. But he said it in front of the Archdeacon and Mrs Bennett and Mrs—Mrs—C. It was a vote of confidence. He didn’t have to do that.’

Daniel drained his glass to quell exasperation at Leonard, shame at himself. He despised butch affectations, but something angrily protective in him was roused. ‘Leonard, for God’s sake. It’s assault. Geordie Keating would tell you that if you don’t believe me. He punched you because you made a thoroughly justifiable complaint, and it’s not as if doesn’t know his own strength. He’s a boxer.’

‘Cruiserweight. I think he was pulling it a bit. He only knocked me down, not out. And I think there’s something going on with him—something I don’t know about. He must have run off for a reason.’

‘I’m sure it was at least as good as all Sidney’s reasons, which probably means it's a woman.’ It came out sourer and more queenly than Daniel had meant. 

‘Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I would never have snitched on Will if I hadn’t run myself ragged covering for Sidney.’

‘Whatever else you say about Sidney, he's gentle,' Daniel relented. 'A real gentleman. Davenport’s just a posh ruffian.’

‘Mrs Bennett thinks he’s a Communist.’

‘Not a chance. County gentry written through him like a stick of rock, don’t you reckon? He’ll revert to type at forty, trade in that motorbike for a thoroughbred hunter, and join the Enfield Chace. If I were a betting man—but what I mean is, Sidney wouldn’t have lashed out like that. Not in a thousand years.’

‘He did at Geordie, once or twice.’

‘Lovers’ tiff.’

‘Daniel!’ But he could see Leonard was not really shocked; he wriggled in a way that under less sensitive circumstances, would have had amorous consequences, and a layer of reserve seemed to fall from him. ‘I knew I'd miss Sidney terribly, as a friend, as a fellow Christian. Not quite as much, as my incumbent. Isn’t it ironic? All the trouble we had with him, all that scandal. And the Bishop goes and appoints someone _else_ who goes AWOL at the drop of a—a mildewed hymnal.’

‘Mildewed hymn—?’ Leonard shook his head, sighed and let one arm dangle, his hand brushing the floor. Daniel wondered, mildly perturbed, if he’d managed to get him tight on half a gill of Hennessey. ‘All right, I won’t ask. You'd see that in the Army too. It’s probably even worse in peacetime. A bloke gets promoted because he faithfully replicates the last chap—even his faults. Especially his faults. It’s a human instinct, I think. To look for the face that fits. But in institutional life it’s a liability.’

‘What a face, as well. Who knew the diocese of Ely could boast so many matinee idols?’ Leonard was definitely tipsy. Daniel stroked the uninjured side of his face with the back of his fingers.

‘Neither of them can hold a candle to you.’

‘Maybe it’ll leave ever such a rugged scar, and I could audition for the pictures.’

‘As a priest, I meant. You’ve got to get out, Leonard. Tell the Archdeacon you want your own parish. He’ll understand. His face doesn’t fit either.’

Leonard’s unhurt eye widened, and he gave a little yelp of pain from trying to open the bruised one. ‘Yes. But what—what about you?’

‘I don’t work for an institution. I can sell up—people will want to have their photographs taken wherever you end up, too.’

The trembling of Leonard's shoulders transmitted itself though the cushion. ‘Really? Would—would you do that for me?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Leonard propped himself up and reached around to put his hand to the back of Daniel’s neck. It was the first time they’d kissed since Mrs C. caught them. It felt like a pledge, but Daniel was still wary of demanding what Leonard couldn’t give. Leonard fell back with a groan.

‘Is it sore? Do you want to—’ Daniel was about to say _lie down_ , which he had to admit was a bit redundant.

‘I’ve a rotten headache. Another one of these,' Leonard indicated his glass, 'and it won’t give me any more bother, though.’

Daniel blinked in half-serious startlement. By Leonard's standard, this was recklessness of a high order. ‘Are you sure? It'll be twice the bother in the morning.’

‘If I’ve got to go about the parish looking like a—a hooligan for the next fortnight, I might as well play truant as well. Then maybe my face will fit.’

Daniel caught a shallow, excited breath. ‘Do you mean—you _will_ stay the night?’

‘I most certainly do. And no need to make up the spare bed.’

**Author's Note:**

> 'quoting Edward FitzGerald': from his translation of the Rubiayat of Omar Khayyám:
>
>> Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,  
> A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse — and Thou  
> Beside me singing in the Wilderness —  
> And Wilderness is Paradise enow.  
> 
> 
> ‘How old is he?’: Will's age is a bit of a poser. Canon has him in Biarritz aged 16, which means he must be either older than 32 or younger than 27 in 1956; the implication (and Word of God) seems to be that he's too young to have seen any form of service during the war, which does make him something of a prodigy. I've fudged the issue, I hope not too jarringly. 
> 
> Enfield Chace: an old Cambridgeshire fox-hunt


End file.
